


Moving Through a Mirror Clear

by snarkymonkey



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Elves are a Legend, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gratuitous Use of Tumbly Baby Elk, M/M, Sexual Content, Slow-Burn Long-Slog, So much angst, Thranduil Abandoned, Thranduil Unused to People, Violence, Well Beyond the Age of Elves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-20 06:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3640776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkymonkey/pseuds/snarkymonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard struggles as a widowed father of three in the chilly confines of Lake-town.  When a directive from the Master arrives, demanding game from the shelter of Mirkwood, in desperation, Bard agrees.  Still, he can't shake the fear that comes from years of terrible stories.  Of rumors of demons among the trees.  </p><p>No one can truly remember what once dwelled in Mirkwood.  The dwarves are all but gone but even they were never one for the trees.  Yet, once, <em>something</em> called Mirkwood home.</p><p>Bard soon learns that whatever had, still does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Go to the forest.  Fetch deer for the larders.  Pay will be conditional upon capture._

     Bard folded up the stained parchment, stuffing it in his trouser pocket as he crossed the docks toward home.  It wasn’t like the Master to provide Bard with employment opportunities.  Typically, he faced the latter.  The Master and Alfrid could never _outright_ take his barge license but they did all they could to tax what little he managed to bring in.  Had it not been for Sigrid’s crafty ways, what little they had would have disappeared long ago.

     The parchment burned in his pocket and he sighed, trudging up toward his door.  Deer would be well-received, he knew.  By either his family or the town itself.  And if the Master was willing to pay _anything_ for that, Bard could risk a trip or two into dark Mirkwood.

     He halted at his door, taking a breath and turning to stare sightless at the fog-shrouded horizon.  As a lad, he’d skirted the edges of that place.  Been scolded by his da as a result.  Warned time and time again that only death dwelled there.  Monsters and demons fierce and bloody.  Only _once_ had he dared to disobey those commands.

     He firmed his mouth and stepped into his home, instantly relaxing.  Sigrid smiled at him over a stewpot atop the fire, stirring it occasionally.  Tilda bolted to her feet and raced across the tiny room, colliding with his waist.  “Da!” she squealed.

     Bard patted her heard, amused at her jubilance.  Tilda was still young enough to enjoy her life.  He had no doubt she had her own worries over how they struggled; he merely hoped she’d be unaware for a bit longer.  Dropping his bag on the rickety chair beside the door, he nudged her toward her sister.  “Go aid Sigrid,” he murmured.

     She pouted but did as directed, kneeling beside her elder sister. 

     _It won’t long be like this_ , he admitted.  Brow furrowing, he moved to the back of the house, finding Bain sharpening a fishing knife.  His son gave him a faint smile in greeting before returning to his work.

     One day, even Bain would be away.  Off with his own family.  His own children.  A wife.  He stuffed the thought away and pulled out the parchment to hand to his son.

     Bain read it, his head snapping up.  “No, Da!”  He dropped his knife and rose to his feet, still clutching the parchment.  “Da, you don’t need to.”

     Bard forced a chuckle.  “You shouldn’t believe old stories, Bain.  I’ll be fine.  I’ll need you to handle the barge while I’m gone, however.”  It had cost a few coin to do it, but the Master had agreed to let Bain be covered by his license for a week at a time.  Which meant Bard needed to make these hunts profitable or he’d merely sink them lower into the debt they already bowed beneath.

    “Gone?”

     He looked behind him to see Sigrid frowning, in her hands the stewpot gently steaming.  “A hunt, Sigrid.  The Master’s willing to pay in addition to the barge.”

     Her eyes went wide.  “Da, you can’t!”  She hustled away, setting the stew pot on the table before hurrying back to him.  “They say there’s been movement!  Things in the trees!”

     “Sigrid,” he chided, watching her, “stories.  They’re merely stories.”  Truth be told, he could hardly remember what had once lived in those trees.  _Something_ had to have.  When young and stupid, Bard had crossed the barrier, venturing as far as his courage would allow.  In the shadows, he had found a broken arrow shaft, of a style he’d never seen.  Elegant and deadly.  Even with age along the head, it sliced his finger open neatly.  He’d kept that secret, however.

     What few books he had managed to find – those not held in the Master’s own library – had spoken of dwarven clans but little else.  He doubted dwarves had left such deadly weaponry.  Those few that still lingered in Middle Earth were heavy and harsh; fond of cudgels and swords.  No, this spoke of precise violence.  Something altogether different.

     Sigrid shook her head.  “Da, we’ll be fine.  We _are_ fine.”  She wrung her hands on her apron.  “Let someone else do it.”

     “I’ve made my decision, Sigrid.”  He turned away, heading to his chair to gather his arrows and bow.  Running a hand along the tension, he stated, “I’ve asked Percy to check in with you during the week.”  He winced at Sigrid’s foot stomp.  Aye, he might have needed to lead with that tidbit.

     “A week?”  He faced her again, worry etched on her young face.  No, not so young these days.  His eldest had grown up quickly under the pressures of caring for two younger siblings and a harried father.  By the Valar, he wished he could have spared her that.

     He waved his hand, hoping to placate her.  “I’ll likely only be a day or two in the woods.  Not long.  Best I give myself time to find _something._ ”

     She opened her mouth to protest further but halted, frowning instead.  She stormed past him, startling him into stepping away.  Before he could question her, she returned, holding out a leather pouch.

     He took it, bemused.  “And this is?”

     “So you’ll return to us,” she whispered.

     He opened the pouch, finding shimmering red beads nestled inside.  He smiled faintly before drawing his eldest into his arms.  “Aye, Sigrid.  I’ll return.  I swear it to you.”

     As she pulled away, she rubbed the heel of her hand against her eyes.  Forcing a smile, she jerked her head.  “Enough.  Supper’s ready.” 

     Bard kept silent, only nodding as he joined his children for dinner.  Conversations were muted this night, laden by the morning’s duties.  He tried to ignore the dread that burned in his gut as he ate.

 

~~*~~

 

     As dawn crept along the horizon, Bard did much the same on the Long Lake’s shores.  Up close, Mirkwood towered above him, the dark limbs scratching the sky.  “They’re only trees,” he muttered, peering upwards.  Bard tried to keep that in mind as he crossed the barrier. 

     Once within the shadows, he halted again, his heart pounding.  He hadn’t stood amongst these bows since he was a lad.  They _all_ avoided it as best they could.  Instead, spreading the dark rumors that swirled about the thick tree trunks.  Whispers of nightmares that bred in the undergrowth.  Bard  _told_ himself he didn’t believe them but when inundated for the over thirty years he had heard them, it became difficult to merely call them  _tales._

    His sword hung heavy on his hip, his bow gripped tight in his hand.  A full quiver of arrows and a handful of colored beads from Sigrid to guide his way back.  Not much of a barrier against decades of fright.  Every fifteen steps deeper, though, he dropped a bright bead.  With luck, it would be enough to lead him out of the choking forest.

     A faint path had carved its way through the trees, though hardly straight.  Bard swallowed, wondering if it folly to follow the natural trail.  Casting his eye around, he found the rest of the forest not much more passable.  The brush and branches tangled thickly about him, blocking most movement.  Unless he unsheathed his sword and _hacked_ his way through, forward was his only option.

     He took a heavy breath and continued on, his hand aching against his bow, ears straining for any sound.  The forest itself remained quiet.  No bird song.  He stopped, reaching out to touch the bark of one of the trees.  It flaked away easily, the rot beneath sickly gray.  Withdrawing, he shuddered and focused on his path, moving steadily into Mirkwood.

     Bard walked for some time, pausing at any strange sound or flicker in his sight.  Beyond the edges of Mirkwood, the forest began to alter.  The rot he had seen faded, replaced by thick, overgrown greenery.  He stopped again, dragging his fingers along one tree.  It didn’t give this time, the bark rough and deep brown.  Even the scents had changed.  Instead of the chilly, rotted stench along the lake, this smelled whole and healthy.  As though he’d walked into a completely different forest.

     “Impossible,” he muttered.  He squinted at the path he stood on, recognizing Sigrid’s beads.  He’d not veered, then.  Still, to change so completely.  Was that even possible?  He crouched down, digging his fingers into the earth.  Warm.  Vibrant.  Not at all like the terrible stories spoken of in Lake-town.  He had to wonder – though he feared he knew the reason – why the Master had insisted on hunting _now._   And why he had seemed almost gleeful that Bard had agreed.

     Wiping his hands on his trousers, he stood and dropped another bead, going still when he heard the crack of a branch.  Holding his breath, Bard waited until his lungs strained.  He let out the air slow and ragged, straining to hear more.  When he thought himself alone again, he rubbed his forehead, heart beating violently.

    He jammed his bow into the dirt, stopping to rest on an overturned tree trunk.  He dug through the pouch at his hip and pulled out a strip of dried fish, chewing on it slow.  It had never been the forest _itself_ that had truly worried Bard.  The spirit that reportedly dwelled in its heart left him shaken.  Some beast borne of the forest’s supposed evil.  Or a demon that prayed on the innocent.  He’d even heard of an angelic spirit, corrupted by the very trees around him. All he did know was that those who dared to venture to the heart of Mirkwood, seldom returned.  And those that did were often gibbering messes who lasted perhaps a month more before their hearts failed.

     Even so, the forest itself now appeared alive but he had yet to see a single, blooded creature.  No squirrels, no birds.  He licked the last of the salt and oil from his thumb, squinting at his surroundings.  He’d expected nothing among the sickly trees at the forest’s edge.  But here?  He would have thought it abundant with game.  Or birdsong.  _Something._

     “Which means,” he grunted as he stood, “I am likely wasting my time and my family’s coin.”  As he’d feared.  If this trip into Mirkwood came up empty, he’d not try again.  Let the Master find another way to yoke Bard into endless debt.  It wouldn’t be by risking his life in the middle of the unknown. 

     He yanked his bow clear of the dirt, knocking it against his boot to dislodge the clod of earth.  As he did, the leaves to his left fluttered violently, a flash of gold following.  He went tense, drawing an arrow fast and leveling it quick.  Another sharp rustle of leaves and an elk calf stumbled into his path, bleating.

     Swearing, he yanked his arms away before relaxing his bow.  He shook his head, smiling grimly at the tawny calf.  Large brown eyes blinked at him, wet nostrils flaring.  Yes, let him come home dragging a _babe_ home over his shoulder.  Tilda would refuse to speak to him for a week again.

     “You’re a lucky bugger,” he muttered, dropping his arrow back in the quiver.  Well, at least he had confirmation of life in Mirkwood.  Where there were calves, there were bulls.  Even one would make this ridiculous escapade worthwhile.  He smirked as he slung his bow.  “I don’t suppose you’ll show me where your sire is, hm?”

     A full-body shudder and the calf bleated again.  It blinked at Bard, pink tongue darting out to swipe at its muzzle.  A flick of the tail and it stumbled back into the trees, leaving Bard alone again. 

     While the passage of time was difficult to gauge among the dense foliage, Bard figured he’d spent more than half the day wandering Mirkwood.  Sigrid’s beads ran low and Bard was _not_ about to attempt to make camp in the heart of Mirkwood.  He would head back to the Long Lake’s shore and wait out the night there.  Seeing the calf had given him enough of a sign to not head home as yet.

     As he turned back to his trail, he caught a deep flash of green and gold.  He halted again, peering into the trees to his right.  His eyes widened.  It had to be an illusion but Bard could swear he saw a face.  Pale and narrow.  Eyes of sharp gray and hair white as starlight.  He blinked and the vision vanished.  Swallowing, Bard stepped carefully from his trail, parting the branches around him.  The brush was too thick to have hidden anyone.  Too dense.

     Though, he couldn’t shake the burn of light, startling eyes.  So foreign and harsh.  Ethereal.  The spirit?

     Shuddering, Bard returned to his trail and scanned the forest floor for his daughter’s beads.  He smiled in relief when he found the first one, bending down to pluck it from the dirt.  Strange. It appeared larger and brighter now. Clearer to his eye.

    He looked around him once more before setting off, collecting Sigrid’s beads as he went.          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHAHAHAHAAAA. Goddammit; I'm doomed by this damn fandom. Do enjoy my descent into madness.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://dek-says-so.tumblr.com).


	2. Chapter 2

     Bard’s rest on the banks of the Long Lake remained uneventful.  Cold as it was, he had no shocking visitors like the elk calf or the . . . _thing_ he’d seen in the leaves.  After a quick, hasty meal, he doused the flames of his campfire and shouldered his gear once more.  While he still had doubts about entering the forest too deeply, he did hope to find the elk calf’s path again.  If he could locate where the baby had come from, he could, _hopefully,_ find enough meat to make this trip worthwhile.

     Like the day before, the boughs of Mirkwood swallowed him as he crossed the fringe.  The sickly nature seemed even more apparent this morning.  As though the trees themselves cried out for aid.  He frowned, touching one, the bark sloughing off like before.  Had it always been like this?  Had the forest always rotted this way?

     He wondered if it would be worth the trouble and questions he’d stir if he tried to seek out information on the Mirkwood of days past.  He knew of a group of dwarves not far from the Running River.  Had traded with one of the younger ones more than once.  If they were as long-lived as they claimed, perhaps he might know? 

     He could contact the dwarves without the Master knowing.  But it would have to wait until this particular task had finished.  He gave the tree one final look before turning and heading into the woods again. 

     Following what he _thought_ was the previous day’s trail, he dropped bead after bead, keeping his hand on the hilt of his sword.  Like before, silence followed his steps.  No birdsong, no whisper of the wind.  Only Bard’s heavy, hesitant steps.

     Only this time, he appeared to head deeper into the sickness.  He saw no healthy trees, no fresh dirt or thick bark.  Clearly, he no longer followed the path he’d taken yesterday.  He halted, peering about.  Was it possible the forest itself could alter the trails?  Did such magic exist?  Another question he hoped to answer in the Master’s library.

     As he walked, some light filtered through the tightly laced branches above, spots of pale, watery color that only highlighted more of the blight in the forest.  Stagnant water pooled under his boots where he stepped, the odor of rot filling his nostrils.  He grimaced holding a hand to his face.

     Rather than lessen, the farther he walked, the worse it became.  At that point, he was certain he was _nowhere_ near where he’d walked the previous day.  With a frown, he turned, intending to retrace his steps only to halt.

     The beads.  The brilliant, shining red beads.  He could see _none_ of them.  “Impossible,” he breathed.  He stumbled one way and the next, desperately searching for their gleam.  Other than broken leaves and filthy water, he found nothing he could recognize.

     Bard swallowed, taking another step back.  Had he done it then?  Had he done what they’d all feared and slipped into Mirkwood so deep he’d never get out?  “Damn,” he rasped.  He crouched down, slipping the skinning dagger from his boot and leaned against the tree to his left.  He clenched his jaw, digging a deep furrow into the bark.

     He stumbled back when black fluid oozed from the mark, spilling over his hand.  “Gah!” he spat, flinging his hand.  He grimaced, the liquid sticky and foul.  The scent of it turning his stomach.  “Curse this bloody forest,” he growled.  Annoyed, he slammed his dagger into the tree, the bark splitting around the cut.  When he tried to retrieve it, it held fast, too deep to draw out again.

     “Shit.”  Well, with the blade wedged, at least he would find his way again.  Hopefully.  He furrowed his brow, watching it in worry.  Thankfully, he still retained his bow and his sword, though, with the state of the forest, he wondered how long that might last.

      He scanned the forest floor, looking for _anything_ that might hint as to the way to go.  He toed the ground, finding only dirt and more water.  After what felt like hours of fruitless searching, he found old slate, the pieces cracked and scarred.  But a road.  Old, but a road.

     Bard breathed out in relief and looked over his shoulder, trying to spy his dagger.  Unsurprisingly, he saw nothing familiar.  Just thick, black trunks that crowded around him.  As though the forest itself changed to suit its needs.

     His hand clenched atop his sword, the metal cold under his palm.  Perhaps they weren’t fanciful stories then.  Perhaps this forest truly did live and breathe pure malice.  An evil so thick and unyielding that it swallowed men whole.

     He ground his teeth.  And therein lay the reason.  A truth he’d shied away from examining.  Why the Master had been so bloody keen on Bard being the hunter of these supposed elk of Mirkwood.  He’d searched, _for years,_ for an effective way to silence Bard.  A way to eliminate him.  And in Bard’s desperation, he’d found it.

     His heart thudded sick and violent in his chest.  No.  _No!_   He wouldn’t allow his children to be injured by this.  He would fight his way out of this horrid hell, back to Lake Town.  And throw the Master’s agreement in his face.  He knelt, swiping at the road he’d found, the slate coming away like crumbled leaves, revealing loose dirt.  Eyes wide, he searched the ground for more, watching it fade and scatter under his fingers. 

     “Valar curse it!” he shouted. 

     The trees around him creaked, groaning as though beset by a heavy wind, though no leaves moved.  He lifted his head, watching for _any_ shift and finding nothing.  But again, the protest that grumbled around him.  A storm?  The heaving of the earth?

     Still kneeling, he shut his eyes tight, angry and terrified.  Was this how men died?  Led in circles until exhaustion or hunger took them?  He lifted his stained hand, the black marks of the tree moving under his sight.

     With a cry, he fell back to his arse, driving his fist into the dirt, desperate to scrape it off.  Hands frayed and reddened, he halted when the pain became too much, the black traded for bright red.  Hissing, he dug in his pouch for a cloth, wrapping it around his torn fingers.

     _Bard._

     He froze, eyes wide.

     _Bard, my love.  Will you dance with me_?

     He staggered to his feet, shuddering.  Her voice.  He’d not heard it . . . for ten long years.  Not since Tilda’s birth.  How . . . why here?  Why _now_?

     A shade.  A silver shadow that wavered and glimmered before him.  She wore a sheer shift, her dark blonde hair hanging in waves over her shoulders.  Smiling wide and warm.  She held her hands out to him, beckoning.

     _Come, dance with me.  I have missed you so._

     Dizzy, his head thick, Bard stumbled forward, vision narrowed to that gleaming shade.  A small voice, shrill and hot, screamed in warning but it faded to a buzz of annoyance as he grimaced, his feet moving heavy and stiff.  Had she merely been _here_ all this time?  Simply waiting for him?  More the fool he, for not searching for her.  His foot snagged on a root, sending him veering into a tree, his head colliding with it sharply.

     He groaned, vision blurring.  The shade across from him melted, its mouth stretching to horrific proportions as it screeched in anger.  His eyes widened and he flailing, stumbling out of its path, falling to the forest floor as he flew past, scattering into dust motes.

     Heart pounding, he stared upward. 

     _Da!_

     “No, no, _no!_ ” he shouted, pulling himself to his feet.  His head still rang, vision doubling as he moved.  More torment.  His children _were not here._   Couldn’t be here.  They remained in Lake-town.  Safe in their hovel of a home.

     _Da!  Help me!_

     He bit his lip until he tasted copper, gagging at the sting.  The screams faded, gurgling into nothing as he leaned against a tree.  Tears of frustration burned in his eyes and he shut them tight, forehead pressed to the rough bark.

     _All your fault, Bard.  You should have done your part.  Played along._

     That sour voice, the snide taunt.  He shivered and bellowed, “Leave me, spirit!”

     He could nearly see the belly shake with laughter.  The callous sneer.  _It’ll cost their blood, you know.  Stupid bargeman.  What did you hope to prove?  That you were Girion?  That you deserved his title?_   The heaving laugh.  _You should have burned with the rest of your line._

     He tore his sword free with a scream, spinning and swinging at . . . nothing.  He staggered, falling to his knees, blade striking the ground.  Water seeped into his trousers, chill and slick.  The sword fell from his fingers and he heaved for breath, howling, his hands clenched in futile anger.

     Bard sagged back with a sob, shuddering.  “I’m so sorry,” he begged.  “My darlings, I’m so sorry.”  He covered his face, desperately searching for composure, the forest snapping and cracking around him.  “Leave me in peace, spirit!” he barked, glaring at the forest.

     A hiss and it scuttled out, a spider so immense Bard went still.  Surely another illusion.  Another fear to drive him mad.  An angry grimace on his face, he grabbed his sword and stood on weak legs.  “You wish me to fight?  Or do you wish me to _beg_?”

     The two front legs wriggled in the water, its mouth opening with a hiss.  Gleaming eyes shimmered in the sickly light, its abdomen swollen and heavy, bouncing as it pulled free of the undergrowth.

     Lips twitching, Bard brought his sword up, the dull edge shining.  “Come then, spirit.  I would rather die fighting you, you foul beast!”

     The spider leapt with a scream, knocking him into the brush.  Black venom dripped from thick, dingy fangs.  It reared back, ready to strike and Bard rolled, wincing as it screeched in pain and anger.

     He stared at it, confused.  Solid.  This had been _solid._   Heavy and stinking of sour meat.  “It’s real,” he breathed.  He managed to swing his sword as it turned, darting toward him.  His blade sliced through one of the fangs, his ears ringing with its shrill shriek.

     The ichor from its wound spattered Bard’s hand and he howled at the burn.  He dropped his sword, fingers nerveless.  He tucked his hand under his armpit, backing away from the spider. 

    It swung back toward him, eyes shining.  Its back end wriggled, front legs bent in a clear urge to jump.  Before it could, however, an arrow split the air, pinning its head to the ground.  It gurgled and belched before its legs folded.

     Clutching his injured hand, Bard stared at it in confusion.  Arrow.  Arrow?  Another illusion?  He swallowed, uneasy as he followed the arrow’s path, high into the decaying trees.

     Gray eyes.  Starlight hair.  But not human.  The eyes too bright, the ears too sharp.  Altogether alien, then.  He thought he knew what that meant but it flittered away too quickly.

     “Spirit,” he breathed.

     The eyes narrowed.  Though foreign and frightening, there was something utterly beautiful in the creature’s look.  Haunting and enchanting.  It tilted its head slowly, elegant even in its clear hostility.

     “Man eneth lín?” it growled.  The voice was melodic and deep; contrasting greatly with the creature’s unearthly beauty.

     Startled to hear it speak, Bard stumbled, falling to his arse.  The action drew the creature’s attention and another arrow was notched, this one aimed at Bard’s heart.  He held out his uninjured hand, desperate for mercy.  “I . . . forgive me.  I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”

     The anger tempered, color flooding the pale cheeks.  Its brow wrinkled and it tried again.  “Pedich I lam edhellen?”

     He shook his head.  “It’s . . . your language.  I don’t know it.”

     The arrow wavered though remained trained on Bard.  Eyes narrowing as though in thought, it barked, “Where?”

     “Where?”  Relieved to understand a word, he kept his hand still and lifted his brows.  “Where am I from?”

     The creature nodded.

     “The lake.  The town on the lake.”  He moved his hand slow, gesturing to where he _thought_ the lake sat.  “I am only here to . . . I was sent.  To hunt.”  The arrow snapped up, this time aimed between Bard’s eyes.  “For my family!  It would . . . I would not be here but for them.”

    The arrow lowered completely, gray eyes still sharp.  To Bard’s surprise, the creature leapt, landing lightly before him.  It dressed like a hunter or scout; simple leather trousers and a dark green tunic.  Though, the fabrics were rich and deep.  Not a common scout then.  Even the quiver and bow were of excellent quality.

     Its boots padded along the dirt and it crouched before Bard, peering at him.

     Bard froze, barely breathing, aware he held nothing in his hands.  He’d lost his bow during the tumble with the spider, his arrows spilled now across the ground.  His sword was close, but not nearly close enough.

     The creature sniffed, elegant nose wrinkling.  It held out a hand.  When Bard didn’t move, it growled, reaching out and snagging Bard’s wrist.  Ignoring Bard’s bark of pain, it unraveled the stained cloth from his hand, inspecting the spider’s burn and the injury from before.

     Saying nothing, it turned, pale hair sliding over one shoulder, its tips brushing soft against Bard’s ruined hand.  He shuddered at that, stilling when the creature snapped around, glaring.  It waited and when Bard remained still, brought out a small glass jar.  It loosened the lid and dipped two fingers in, bringing up a shining, gray gel.  Eyes flicking to Bard, it swiped it along Bard’s injuries.

     Cold as ice, he gasped, once more drawing the creature’s attention.  This time, humor appeared to color the soft gray for a moment before going blank once again.  It smeared the pungent salve across Bard’s hand before pulling out a cloth from the same pouch and tying it around the wounds.

     Bard blinked and murmured, “My thanks.”

     “Man eneth lín,” it asked again, squinting at Bard.

     He frowned.  “I still . . .” he stopped, pondering.  “My name is Bard.”

     “Bard,” it repeated, eyebrows lowering.  It pointed to its right and growled.  “Leave.”

     Bard snorted.  “I’ve tried, believe me.”

     The creature sighed and turned slightly from Bard, slamming its hand against the ground.  Green flooded from its fingertips, racing left like a pathway.  Tiny white flowers dotted the carpeting of grass and in the distance, Bard swore he could see sunlight.

     It turned to him and snarled, “Leave,” before bolting to its feet and vaulting into the trees.

     Stunned, Bard waiting for the creature to return, certain it was merely another illusion.  But even as he looked, the pathway it had created remained, still lush and vibrant.  He reached out with his uninjured hand, feeling soft, warm grass under his fingers.

     “My thanks, spirit,” he breathed.

     He scrambled to his feet and collected his weapons before setting foot on the path.  And if he ran its length to the shores of the Long Lake, surely no one would have blamed him.

    

~~*~~

* _Man eneth lín_? – What is your name?

* _Pedich i lam edhellen_? – Do you speak elvish?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. This one is pretty damn angsty. :D
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://dek-says-so.tumblr.com).


End file.
